Consequences
by Amythesica
Summary: Written for the International Wizarding School Championship Round 4. It is still dark when Lucius awakens in the overstuffed chair next to Narcissa's bedside. This chair has been his home for the last two days. He hasn't seen anyone but the healers and his wife for the last two days. Not even his son. His only child.


**Story Title/Link: **Consequences

**School and Theme:** Hogwarts, The Headmaster's Office

**Main Prompt:** [Platonic Pairing] Lucius Malfoy/Severus Snape

**Additional Prompts:** [Action] Skipping Rocks, [Genre] Hurt/Comfort

**Year: **7th Year

**Wordcount**: 2,795

* * *

**The way that I interpreted the theme was the _consequences_ of choices made by those in power. And not the immediate consequences, but the long-term consequences of those decisions. **

**Huge thanks to my beta, Penguin.**

* * *

**_September 27, 1981_**

_"I'm sorry, Heir Malfoy," the healer trails off._

_"What?" he demands, his voice hoarse, "my wife? Lyra? Please, tell me they're alright."_

_"I'm sorry, Heir Malfoy," she repeats, "your daughter was stillborn . . ."_

* * *

It is still dark when Lucius awakens in the overstuffed chair next to Narcissa's bedside. This chair has been his home for the last two days. He hasn't seen anyone but the healers and his wife for the last two days. Not even his son.

His only child.

He blinks and breathes deeply as he is hit with the fact that it _wasn't_ a dream—a _nightmare_—and that everything had indeed happened the last two days.

_ . . . stillborn . . . _

He swipes his hands at his moist eyes before he softly strokes his beautiful wife's cheek. The skin is still as soft as it always is, despite all of the tears that have marred them the last two days. He presses a soft kiss to her forehead, and when she stirs, he shushes her softly, and wipes at the salty tears that spill.

She starts to wail, loud, howling moans of a heartbroken mother, and he blindly gropes at the bedside table, and wraps his fingers around the sleeping potion. She curls into him, and clings to his robes as if they're her only lifeline. He cups the back of her neck, lifts her head, and tips the light blue liquid down her throat, and she calms once more.

Her clawed grip relaxes, and he readjusts her on the bed, so she is comfortable once more. He wipes her face free of tears, kisses her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her lips, and leaves the Health Room at Malfoy Manor.

He's unaware of how long he strolls through the vast, gaping halls of his ancestral home. He is uncaring of the portraits' eyes that follow him, and he cares nothing of the whispers that flow around him, and cling to him like a heavy winter cloak.

He is stopped at the end of a desperate and long hallway, by his father. "Go. Mourn. Take time for yourself, my son. I will watch over Narcissa and Draco, like I have always done when you are needed elsewhere."

He looks into the understanding eyes of his father, before he nods his head minutely, and wipes at yet another tear, and leaves.

He leaves the imposing halls; the vast dining rooms; the hulking ballrooms. He leaves behind Draco's nursery, and the empty room next to it, filled to the brim with pink.

Pink toys.

Pink clothes.

Pink bottles.

Pink blankets.

Pink. Pink. Pink. _Pink_—

He is brought out of his mind when his slipper-clad foot lands in water.

He looks around him, and he wonders how he has walked so far without being aware of his surroundings. The manor is no longer within view. He's on the shore of the small lake that marks the center of the sweeping property.

Around him, it is silent.

Around him, the only things are trees, water, and his father's horrid albino peacocks. He is shocked that he notices them. He has noticed nothing for the last few days.

How unfortunate that they are the first thing he recognizes.

He was sure a week ago that the first thing he'd do when he became Lord Malfoy would be to get rid of those blasted birds . . . but now . . ..

Now he doesn't know _what_ he's going to do.

_ . . . stillborn . . . can't get pregnant again . . . _

Now he is lost, drowning in a world of bone and dust, and is being pulled under crashing waves made of sorrow, disgust, and vile despair.

He should have done something.

He should have _saved her_.

_Both_ of them.

He should have—

"I find that screaming helps best."

Lucius flinches, and turns to his right where his closest friend—next to his wife—sits on the sand next to him. His black hair is slicked back into a high ponytail and is oily from slaving away over potions day in and day out. The stench of the specialized healing potions that he's been brewing for Narcissa the last couple days clings to his clothes in a vile, medicinal haze. At least the recognition of him is more pleasant than the recognition of the peacocks, even if the smell is slightly nauseating. The younger man's face is red, and still slightly damp, and Lucius thinks that Severus has just finished brewing, as he always washes his face whenever he steps away from his beloved potions.

"I tried that yesterday," Lucius croaks, "it didn't help."

"Where did you scream?" It is asked in such a way that it is obvious that wherever his chosen location was, it was not good enough for his needs.

"The dungeons. I thought that the echoes would help. I was wrong."

"Was anyone with you?"

Lucius shakes his head. "No. Does that make a difference?"

"It can."

The two lapse into a comfortable, yet heavy silence. They sit identically; their legs bent and spread, and their elbows resting on their knees with their arms crossed.

Sometime later, Severus asks softly, "Do you want to talk about it?"

The sky is beginning to lighten, and with it, the black murky waters that are a physical embodiment of how Lucius feels inside.

"Not particularly."

"Alright."

Lucius, taught from a young age to be able to hold the same position—no matter how uncomfortable the chosen position may possibly be—for hours on end, grows restless. He digs his fingers into the rocky sand around him, and the feel of the grains of sand packing under his nails, and burrowing into the fine lines on his hands, does something to him.

The simple action makes him feel somewhat free, somehow. He knows that in reality, the small act of rebellion will be fixed with a flick of his wand, or a quick dip into a basin of water, but still.

It is his shield. It is his sword. It is his steel armor, impenetrable to all, except for his wife and son.

It is his protection, and he will cling to it for as long, and as hard, as he can.

"How's Narcissa?" Severus asks tentatively as the sky turns pink.

"Distraught."

The dark-haired man nods. "Understandable."

Lucius' fingers are stopped by something hard, and he pries it out of the ground, to find a flat, round stone. He wipes it free of sand as the sun crests the distant horizon.

"How are you?" Severus demands as a peacock enters the still dark lake in front of them.

He hopes it drowns.

Despite the younger man being one of his closest confidants, he can't help but be shocked by the question. "Distraught. Guilty." Lucius scoffs quietly, but does not continue to speak. He does not know what to say. Doesn't know how to explain the agony that thumps in his bones, or the despair that taints his magic deep within him.

He has abandoned his quest of covering himself in flimsy sand, and has moved onto looking for more flat stones. Severus is silent, and joins him on his quest. Once their robe pockets are full of the rocks, they stand, and begin to skip them.

When they were at Hogwarts, he a seventh year, and Severus a second year, they would stand on the edge of the Black Lake and have a competition to see who could skip the most without using their magic to aid the rocks. It was always used as a distraction—a buffer between whatever had happened (usually a 'prank' gone wrong by Potter and his group of friends). It offered a safe way for them to speak, without having to look at each other, a way for them to show the other who they really were.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," Severus comments after his stone finishes skipping six times.

Lucius flicks his own stone, and it skips five times. "How could it _not_ be my fault?"

"You did everything you needed to, and _could_ do. You made the pregnancy as easy on her as possible." Severus' next stone skips nine, and his own only skips three times as he grows more agitated. "There was nothing more you could have done."

Lucius feels the build of anxiety deep in his chest, and it grows hard to breathe. He rips his outer robes off, and forces the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. He ignores the black stain on his left forearm. He undoes the starched cravat at his neck, and unbuttons the top of his shirt, and finally he can breathe.

He flicks his wrist, and his wand slips from the holster on his forearm and into his hand. His fingers wrap around the silver snake head, and despite everything that has happened the last few days, he feels at home. He feels that everything could be right once more.

He has a wand.

He has _magic_.

He can do better.

He flicks his wand, and the rocks he had gathered slip out of the fabric that has pooled on the ground from his panicked fit, and hover next to his head. The clicking sound that they make as they jostle around each other is strangely comforting.

"I still feel like I should have done more." He plucks a small stone from the mass next to him, and twists it around in his hands before he draws back and snaps his arm forward, and the rock soars.

Eleven skips.

"You may feel that way, but I am here to assure you that there is nothing more that you could have done."

Severus' skips eight times.

They fall into silence once more as they skip rocks, and Lucius becomes greedy. He steals comfort from the presence of his friend. He refuses to let him leave—not that he tries—because he _knows_ he will never be whole again. Not without his closest friend—his son's godfather—his adoptive _brother_—by his side.

He thinks Severus knows this in the way that he stays. The sun is now high in the sky, and their skin is warm and pink from its unrelenting rays, and the peacocks strut around them. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner is brought to them, unordered, and he thinks that his father is watching him, as well as his son and wife.

He hopes Narcissa is well.

The sun has set, and with it, Lucius. He's sprawled on the ground, his left arm hovering in front of his face in the dying light, and he is filled with a different kind of despair.

"I signed up for glory, Severus," Lucius says softly, uncaring of the birds surrounding them. If one is an imposter, he doesn't care. Let them hear what he has to say. Let them _hear_ his _sorrow_. "There is no _glory_ in the death of those who cannot defend themselves. There is not _glory_ in the eradication of an entire race. There is no _glory_ in the Dark Lord's ranks, and I hate my father for landing me here. For landing my _family_ here.

"If it wasn't for him, I'd be free. If it wasn't for him, my wife and I would be holding our daughter in our arms. If it wasn't for him—" he chokes off as a sob shakes his form. He sits up, his hair flutters around him, and he throws the flat stone as far as he can, and it crashes into the flat surface of the water with a heavy _plop_, and he weeps as he curls in on himself.

_ . . . can't get pregnant . . . _

"If it wasn't for my father, my Lyra would be in my arms. If it wasn't for my father selling the Malfoys into the Dark Lord's debt, my wife wouldn't have been exposed to so much Dark Magic, and my daughter would be _alive_—" he chokes, and curls further in on himself.

Arms wrap around him, and lift him, and pull him into a warm embrace. He curls into his best friend's arms, and fearlessly lets his heartbreak out in the comforting embrace. "Hush, my friend. All will be well."

Lucius shakes his head. "I should have done something more."

"Hush, Lucius."

"I should have stepped in front of the curse that should have been meant for me. I should have insisted that he torture _me_ instead of my wife. I should have been stronger . . . quicker to obey."

"You are too strong to be broken with a mere _Crucio_, Lucius. The Dark Lord knows your fears, your strengths, and your weaknesses, and he used that knowledge against you, just as he uses the same knowledge against the rest of those who follow him. You were doing _exactly_ as you were supposed to. He took his anger for another out on you and your wife. _You_ had _nothing_ to do with the curse that damaged Narcissa's womb. No one knew she was pregnant."

Severus falls silent, and they stay huddled together in the warm autumn air.

"When you joined," Lucius starts hesitantly, "did you know that it would just be death and blood?"

"No," he answers after a moment, "I was like you, when you joined. I had heard of his plans from when he was younger . . . _saner_, and I foolishly thought that he wasn't so far gone as to abandon them."

"There is no glory here."

"No," Severus admits softly, "but we must keep this to ourselves. It would not do well to have our Lord discover our discontent. You know very well what he does to those who speak against him."

They separate, and move to stand side by side, and occasionally skip rocks until the moon is high in the sky.

"Lucius."

He is not shocked by the sudden arrival of the man. He had felt the stinging in his arm a short while ago, and knew that he would have more company.

He turns and bows to his Lord. "Yes, my Lord?"

"Your wife misses you, no doubt."

"Of course, my Lord."

He gathers his discarded clothing, and as he walks pass his Lord, his head bent in fearful respect, he is stopped with a hand on his arm. He looks to the man. "For what it is worth, I am sorry."

Lucius scans the blank face in front of him, and nods. "Thank you, my Lord."

With a pat on the shoulder, he is released. He knows that the man is not truly mournful for what he has done. He knows that he needs Lucius' full support, and his seemingly endless gold for this war to end the way he wants it to end. He walks five steps before the man speaks once more, almost as an afterthought. "I have been doing some reading, and I am sure that if you and your wife desire to have another child, I will be able to make it happen."

Lucius bites his lip, and shoves down on the guilt that threatens to devour him. He knows that he is being manipulated, but . . . it is in moments like these that he remembers _why_ he didn't run when his father informed him on his seventeenth birthday that he would become part of the Dark Lord's ranks. It is in moments like these, that make him remember why he _willingly_ served the man who death follows in his every step; who makes blood spill with near every breath.

He tries to remember that he is being manipulated and fails—the hope is too bright.

"Thank you, my Lord. Truly," he chokes out from his tight throat. He blinks away the tears.

"Go to your wife, Lucius."

He nods stiffly. He makes his way back to the glorious halls, and the immense dining rooms, and the dazzling ballrooms. He passes Draco's nursery, and the empty room next to it, filled to the brim with pink.

Pink toys.

Pink clothes.

Pink bottles.

Pink blankets.

He steps into the Health Room. "Have you mourned?" his father asks quietly from the overstuffed chair where he lounges as he reads a book.

"I have."

"Good." His father stands, and hugs him close, and strokes his hair. "Your wife and son need you."

He nods, and his father leaves. He settles into the chair next to his wife, and strokes her hair as she sleeps.

While there is no glory in death, there is glory in life, and in love. He presses a kiss to her hair, holds her hand in his own, and sleeps.


End file.
